So I went to therapy, and we ended up talking about childhood, which, no matter how, “I’m an adult, I’m not dealing with childhood” I am, apparently childhood can fuck up your shit and stunt your development and make you a goddamn weirdo as an adult, so now we have to talk about it and I almost cried twice and FUCK crying, crying is for teenagers and women who watch Lifetime and also fuck fuck fuck don’t wanna don’t wanna don’t wanna.
My family, over the course of one 4-hour gathering: “Look how fat Aunt So-and-So got. And her husband’s no better, he’s about to keel over any day, he’s so big … Look at that woman on TV, she’s too heavy to be wearing that dress … Have you ever seen that show, My 600-Pound Life? So disgusting, I’d just stop feeding them all that junk if I were their caregiver … Hey, Smug, do you want some kielbasa or some cheesecake?”
Ummmmm… CHRIST the fuck, no. My surprise that I made it through life without an eating disorder is oddly filling.
At the same time…people are fucking awful and I can’t believe they say these things to another human being.
And I’m not gonna lie, I still remember my mother’s coworker asking “Why are you so fat?” when I was a kid, or a neighbor telling me I didn’t need another doughnut because I was “big enough.” I was like 10. Shit stays with you. (Yes, they were assholes, and their opinions don’t matter to me, and I’ll eat a goddamn doughnut now if I want to, LIKE AN ADULT. But…it stays with you.)
So… I don’t know. Maybe don’t be a dick? That’s sort of my point here.
P.S. I left the ad for Breyer’s Gelato in my screen grab of that image, because how hilariously perfect is that?
Oh. Well, apparently I have deep-seated issues with being called “Princess” by a romantic prospect. Gotta love a fun and unexpected (funexpected?) fit of rage.
Maybe I’m just bitter that I don’t have a tiara and a big, frilly dress. Or maybe my dad calls me Princess, so it’s creepy. (See also: I’m no longer an 8-year-old girl, and I’m pretty fuck far from a princess.)
I’m sure there’s a size and shape a woman can be where my grandfather WON’T see fit to comment on it. But I have not yet found it. All of us are either “too thin,” are “losing weight” and should “keep it up,” OR have “put on a few pounds.”
It starts when you’re about 10; end age to be determined. (Grandmom is 83, so…not yet.)
Thanks, Granddad. You wanna kick in some cash for my next therapy session?
I don’t know how it’s even possible I still find this stuff remarkable. This is a family that regards weight loss as a “bright side” of having cancer. The fact that I manage to have more body-confident days than body-conscious days is a goddamn miracle. (A miracle I often fight myself for. But a miracle all the same.)